


It's about to be lived again

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alcohol, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Canon, References to Past Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-27 20:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16709797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: He wonders if there’s such a thing as reincarnation or parallel universes and if, somewhere, in every life and every world, there’s an Arthur Stuart grasping at Curt Wild with greedy hands and a mind stuffed with delusions.





	It's about to be lived again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lev_aarons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lev_aarons/gifts).



February. The Brian Slade story, or what’s left of it, sits crumpled and unread in a drawer. So much for Arthur’s dreams of writing for Rolling Stone or NME. So much for moving onto grown-up investigative journalism and the New York Times or something. Arthur's lucky he wasn’t sacked. Lou gave him a stern talking to about going rogue or, worse, peddling conspiracy theories like a madman. He’d been scolded for mouthing off to Tommy Stone, too. But he’d expected that. Really, he’d emerged unscathed, from a practical standpoint. He can still pay the rent (on this shit place, at least) and buy groceries, even go out for the occasional drink. He could have done much worse.

The bitterness - the black, heavy, humiliating depression - is thanks to Curt. Well, no. Curt was perfectly decent. Arthur couldn’t expect more from him than a few grudging or melancholy words. The problem, as usual, is Arthur’s _response_ to Curt, Arthur’s stupid, childish longing.

He collapses onto his single bed. The sheets are threadbare and scratchy to his touch, and he hates to think how many decades of dust the carpet beneath him has accumulated. But the mess in his sad flat doesn’t really matter, does it? Hardly anyone sees it. His last boyfriend, John, gave a shit about design and things like that. He used to tease Arthur - even suggested once or twice that they shack up.

“Come on,” John would say. “You don’t need to live in a dump. I would have been ashamed if my college dorm looked like this. You might feel happier if you lived in civilization.”

Happier. Yeah, right. Arthur always declined. He realizes now, sitting alone as afternoon turns to evening (idiot - why doesn’t he go out somewhere?) that it’s not _just_ the Brian Slade story. He’s been mourning his lost, fucked-up youth for years. It’s so stupid. It’s like an old, melodramatic novel, with hauntings and curses and terrible pasts that shatter the present. Brian Slade brought Arthur’s issues back to the front of his brain. That’s all. Arthur’s the one who’s supposed to be a fucking adult. Why is he still thinking of Curt? Still imagining their brief conversation in that bar, seeking some word of recognition, as if he were replaying his favourite track on an album?

Worse, he’d run into Curt on the subway early in his stupid research. He’d told himself at first that it wasn’t Curt, just a phantom of Arthur’s stunted imagination. But it had been Curt. He’d worn the same beat up black-and-tan jacket in the bar after the Stone gig; the jacket confirmed it.

They must live fairly close to each other. Among New York’s teeming millions, Arthur and Curt are close enough to take the same subway line from the same stop. Arthur has thought that a thousand times with absurd eagerness, only to try to push the knowledge away, back into the pit. Christ, he’s thinking like a bloody stalker. Crazed fan murders former rock star: he can see the headline already. Happily for Curt, Arthur’s never done anything striking or noticeable. Besides, crime won’t get Curt out of his system. Nothing has. Nothing will.

He lies down on his back. The room is cold. The heating’s been buggered since Christmas, off and on. New York buildings are supposed to have proper insulation, better than English ones, but this place is such a dump. He had to dig out an old pair of pajamas, which no longer fit him. He must have gained weight, muscle, maybe. The tight fit has made him feel old. He should  have grown up, should have achieved something by now. Nostalgia’s a bitch, especially when you’ve got precious little to be nostalgic _for_ . What did he ever have, as a teenager? Humiliation and trauma at the hands of his dad, then a few hectic, gorgeous months traveling with the Flaming Creatures? They abandoned him, too, in the end. It’s hard to think of them now without clenching his teeth. But that period was liberating and amazing while it lasted. He can’t deny that - not anymore. It’s pretty sad that Curt fucking him on a dingy rooftop was the happiest few hours of his life, but it’s _true_. What’s wrong with him, for that to be true?

He tries to think of something else. His mind, of course, disobeys and drifts back to Curt instead. Curt looked older and more careworn than he did years ago. _Obviously_ : people are supposed to grow and to change. But he was no less handsome for all that.

Arthur remembers the feeling of Curt moving inside him. He’d imagined the same thing when they spoke in that bar; it was so uncomfortable, being near him. He’s alone now, though. As usual.

He slips his hand down to the waistband of his jeans. His cock stirs, despite the chill in the air. He thinks, _To hell with everything,_ and undoes his fly, teasing his prick to hardness. Picturing Curt all the while. The cold of the room stands in for that wintry rooftop. He tries to imagine Curt’s hand pumping him instead of his own, recalls the sensation of callused fingers running along Arthur’s skin. He’s fully hard in moments. An old sense of shame gnaws at him. He forces it back, concentrating on the erection that has begun to ache. A drop of pre-come wets the head of his cock. He slows his strokes, trying to conjure Curt’s presence. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Curt of ten years ago or the man who was so close to him so recently, flesh and blood and the scent of cigarettes in a dive bar.

The thought drives him over the edge. He bites his lip hard and comes into his hand in hot spurts.

Afterward, he cleans himself up with tissues and kicks at the trash can as he throws them away.

*

April. There’s little cheer in any of it - the Easter long weekend, the bar, the liquid courage Arthur downed and the blond twenty-something he made out with in the bathroom. He’s younger than Arthur, this bloke. Jimmy: that’s what he said his name was.

“Your place or mine?” Jimmy asks. He can’t pull off cliches, not like - well, never mind. _(Make a wish…)_ Maybe it’s Arthur’s fault. Maybe he’s not drunk enough to find the line charming.

“My place is a dump,” replies Arthur. It’s automatic by now, the same sheepish explanation he has offered a dozen hook-ups. He looks down at his lap.

“Well, I guess mine’s okay.” Jimmy takes Arthur’s hand. Arthur considers the touch, detached. Jimmy’s fingers are surprisingly soft. No calluses. Not a guitarist, then, probably not even someone who strums a few casual chords, like Arthur once did. Arthur holds his hand anyway.

“Great,” he says.

The thumping disco track in the background masks the blankness of his voice.

They make small talk in the cab. Jimmy works in computers, which makes Arthur think of his own computer and printer, balanced on the sad spare chair in his bedroom. He’s too drunk to mope, at least. He answers with something appropriate and stares out at the grey careless city beyond the car window.

They’ve hardly entered Jimmy’s flat before Arthur seizes him and crushes his lips in a heated, desperate kiss. Their teeth clack. Jimmy moans, then pulls away from Arthur, just long enough to grope for the lightswitch. The flat is cramped, typical New York, with harsh overhead lights and a view of a filthy brick wall. The only bit of life Arthur can see is an ivy plant growing stubbornly on top of the bookcase.

He turns back to Jimmy. His blond hair is a little bit like Curt’s, whom Arthur will be picturing while they fuck. Arthur's gotten used to it. His boyfriends, the ones who stuck around long enough to realize, didn't.

“Do you want another drink?” Jimmy asks, tilting his head toward the kitchenette.

“Sure.”

Another round of beer turns into making out in the kitchen and then sex standing up against the wall. Arthur has taken to keeping a wrapped condom in his pocket, like a sensible man. (Sure.) He loses himself in the release, briefly. After he comes and discards the condom, he's too tired to feel anything except grateful to stagger to the bedroom.

The blinding headache wakes him. He sits up beside Jimmy, and feels his stomach clench. Nausea. Wonderful; he can't even hold his liquor anymore. It's not surprising, though. He's closer to thirty than to seventeen. Jimmy's probably too young to get hangovers like this yet.

Arthur drags himself to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and hover by the toilet in case of emergency. He doesn’t need it. That’s one bright spot. He’s been in much worse shape, like the night in 1975 when he shot heroin with Malcolm in his dressing room. There was no pleasure in that, either, not for Arthur - just a sickness so intense, he thought he'd be sent back to Manchester and his parents in a body bag. He'd been eighteen and terrified. But the memory of that terror probably saved him from ending up like Curt.

He returns to the bedroom and finds Jimmy sitting up in bed, looking concerned. Arthur grimaces.

“What is it?”

Arthur hates those questions, hates the tenderness behind them. Time to leave. Rather, it would be time to leave, if it weren't three in the morning, and if Arthur didn't live in a dodgy area.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Headache.”

Despite the dark, he notices Jimmy’s face relaxing into a smile. Arthur wishes he were alone. The ghost of Curt - of an intoxicated one-night-stand a decade before - wouldn't send that guilty awkwardness creeping through his gut.

“I've got ginger ale,” Jimmy offers.

Arthur shakes his head. He lies back down and turns away from Jimmy, unable to meet his gaze. His last boyfriend, John, said he was cold, ungrateful, and unfeeling. It was an ugly breakup, but John had a point. Doesn't matter, though: maybe he's better off sitting at home alone, wanking to thoughts of Curt.

*

May. His depression lingers into spring. Everything feels like a slow, maudlin song: the weather (ugly and drizzly, like being back in England). Work. The fact that he still looks for Curt on the subway or in bars (pathetic). At times he's tempted to call a shrink. He imagines looking up therapists in the phone book. He'd have to come out to her, then try to explain his stupid, stunted infatuation. Yeah, right: he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, even if he had the money for therapy.

He wishes he felt safer walking or running around his neighbourhood. The area’s shit, of course. He misses the exercise, but isn’t quite stupid enough to take risks or wander around unnecessarily. Instead, Arthur forces himself to be around people, at least occasionally. Sometimes he finds himself back in that bar where he met Curt, after the Stone show. Other nights he catches himself and refuses to go there. He can’t keep showing up hoping for Curt. He should meet someone else, someone like that Jimmy, who actually called him back despite his rudeness. Arthur hasn’t returned his calls. (Maybe he _shouldn’t_ try to meet people. He might not deserve it.)

His cramped and awful apartment drives him out into the rain one night, as it often has. It’s another long weekend, Memorial Day. Arthur hasn’t fully grasped what this holiday means, or what you’re supposed to _remember_. Doesn’t matter. It’s a break from work and routine, at least.

He picks a bar for its proximity to the subway more than anything else. He doesn’t really expect to meet anyone, and he tries not to think of Curt or to wonder if they might live near enough to frequent the same places. (Those other chance encounters must have been a fluke. Seven million people call New York home, and few of them _are_ Curt Wild or give a shit about Curt Wild. None of them give a shit about Arthur.)

And yet, he feels goosebumps rising as he enters the place. It’s small, smaller than the last fateful bar. There’s no mistaking the back of Curt’s head or that battered jacket, still damp from the rain.

Arthur’s first instinct is to walk away. Does he _need_ another awkward, ambiguous chat, or several more months of pointless fantasies? He’s stupid enough as it is. But he hesitates, freezes, staring at Curt’s blond hair from the doorway. Seconds pass. He realizes that his palms have grown damp.

Then there’s a flash of lightning outside. Arthur sees it from the corner of his eye, through the window. The brief and subtle change in lighting is enough to make Curt glance toward the entrance - and Arthur. His throat tightens. Thunder crashes, and he and Curt make eye contact. Curt even gives a vague nod. Arthur can’t leave now. He’d look like too much of a coward.

For a moment he’s seventeen again, staring at Curt Wild from backstage at the Hammersmith. He forgets to breathe and can’t manage a smile. _Shit - Shit..._ Luckily, Curt remembers how to function, and tilts his head to indicate the empty seat at his table. Arthur joins him. He tries not to read into the invitation.

“Hey,” says Curt. “You're, uh-”

The fog in Arthur's brain lifts. “Arthur. Arthur Stuart. I ran into you after the Stone show.”

Recognition lights up Curt's face. He doesn't smile, but he looks calmer, less drawn than he did that other night. Arthur swallows.

“Cool,” Curt mutters. “Glad you're here. They say it's pathetic to drink alone. Let me get you something.”

Was that meant to put Arthur at ease? Or has Arthur caught him in a rare unguarded moment? He must have his own issues and his own self-doubt. That should have been obvious long ago, just as it should have been obvious that Arthur would be better off without him.

Yet here he is.

“Thanks,” Arthur says.

Curt motions to the bartender, then orders another beer for himself and one for Arthur.

“You're a reporter or something, right?” Curt asks. There’s a low wariness in his voice that makes Arthur’s stomach sink. He tries not to grimace. He'd been watching Curt's throat working around his drink, and liking what he saw. For a second, things had seemed to go _well._

“Don't worry; I'm not after an interview or anything.”

“Yeah? You're done writing about old rockers?”

“For now. And you’re not old.”

“Debatable, but that’s good.”

Breathe out. Disaster averted, for now. Arthur takes a sip of his drink and stares down at it. He has fantasized about this moment for months - years - but his daydreams are useless and his mind blank. Then again, it’s not like anything good will come of this meeting. At best, he’ll go home with Curt, cling to a few minutes or hours of passion before going away emptier than ever. Surely he can do better than this? He’s known gay men who did better, who managed real, adult relationships. Some of John’s friends were like that.

He leans in closer to Curt. Curt mirrors the movement. The leg of his chair scrapes against the floor, echoing in the quiet room, and he draws close enough for Arthur to feel the warmth of his knee against his jeans. Perfect, for now. Arthur savours that warmth and the slight quickening of his pulse.

“So what are you writing about?” It’s nice of Curt, trying to keep the conversation going. Touching, in a way: he’s awkward, too. And he seems to want the closeness, almost like Arthur does. Arthur looks him full in the face.

“Nothing interesting.”

So much for flirting. He’s rubbish at small talk. Eye contact is also hard; he can never quite find the right balance between looking sexy and interested, or weird and desperate. But he’ll try. God damn it, he’ll try, because this is _Curt._ He wonders if there’s such a thing as reincarnation or parallel universes and if, somewhere, in every life and every world, there’s an Arthur Stuart grasping at Curt Wild with greedy hands and a mind stuffed with delusions. The thought is depressing and morbid rather than romantic. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.

He nurses his beer. They sit in silence - a friendly silence, Arthur hopes, exchanging long glances with Curt. Good.

“I’m not doing anything interesting either,” Curt replies, once he has downed most of his drink. “Not lately.”

Arthur puts a hand to his mouth and worries at a fingernail. Curt welcomed his presence at first, but asking more - how he is, if he’s writing new music (it’s three years since his last album, which flopped; Arthur knows that too well) - seems risky. Is it better to nod, kindly? Jesus, to think that he listens to people for a living…

“Well,” Arthur says, “same.” His face flashes hot; he hurries to correct himself, and forces a laugh. The sound is brittle in his ears. “But then, you knew that already.”

Curt laughs, too. Arthur’s panic subsides.

“Another drink?” asks Curt.

Arthur bites down so hard on his nail that his jaw locks. Fuck. “I’m, uh - I’m pacing myself.”

He hopes he won’t sound like some prat who can’t hold his liquor. Then again, that’s what he’s become.

But Curt nods, and draws closer still. His heat and his scent make Arthur’s spine tingle.

“You’re also cleaning up your act?”

Arthur’s reply has piqued Curt’s interest - quite by accident. He exhales.

“I should do the same - I mean, I did. I _have._ I don’t drink much anymore, and booze was never my poison of choice. Not after - you know.”

Arthur knows, all right. He’s glad Curt sounds somewhat confident in his progress and his sobriety, though he can’t help noticing how Curt’s brow has tightened. Time to change the subject.

“Good for you,” he says. “You live around here?”

It’s a stroke of genius - safe, and, if Curt wants to, he can invite Arthur home with him. So simple, really. Arthur resists the childish urge to cross his fingers beneath the table.

Curt seems to catch his meaning.

“A short walk. Sometimes I just need to get out of the house, you know?”

Arthur does. He nods, and stares at Curt’s face, drinking in the blue eyes, the five o’clock shadow, the lines that weren’t there years ago, or that may have been too faint to show on album covers or in magazines. His hopes are mounting, rising like the dark smell of Curt’s cigarette. They could go home together. It would be easy; Curt has opened up to him, and seems to like his company. But then what? ‘Opening up’ - ‘ liking’ - must be the wrong words, merely a new incarnation of Arthur’s teenage fantasies. Curt doesn’t _like_ him. He must like the idea of not being alone, of dumping his load in someone vaguely familiar and not too unattractive. If anything happens, it’ll be a quick release from tension and a few minutes of fun. That’s all. Arthur will take it, though. He doesn’t even see it as being used.

For a moment he thinks of himself and Jimmy. The memory brings a stab of guilt; he looks away from Curt. He’s been a rude, careless git himself.

To his surprise, he feels a callused hand settle on his shoulder. His body goes rigid. Curt has reached for him, his expression bemused.

“You okay?”

Arthur’s face breaks into a painful smile. He’s all too aware of the danger: the bar’s other patrons, any of whom might notice the touch. The likelihood that he will say something foolish and sentimental, or, worse, get up and run. (Would that really be the worst thing?) But Curt seems genuinely kind. It’s irresistible. It always was.

Choosing the words is agonizing, another constant in Arthur’s life. He’s so much more confident when he’s alone in his room or his office writing things down, detached from others, with time and quiet to think of each phrase. Now, of course, the stakes are a million times higher than with anything he has ever written, even when he was young and passionate about journalism. But he doesn’t think he can stand more waiting. His vision has narrowed to encompass little but Curt, leaving the rest of the bar a blur. His body itches with want.

“I’m fine,” he says. He inhales, feigning a confidence that he doesn’t feel. He meets Curt’s eyes again, and angles his hand so that their wrists touch. “I was, um, wondering if we should get out of here. Go somewhere else, maybe.”

Curt’s laugh is a balm for Arthur’s taut nerves.

“Your place or mine?” Curt asks. His voice is low, but he winks at the cliche.

“My place is a dump,” Arthur replies. “And you said you were close by.”

Curt nods. He signals to the bartender, pays for both of them, and they leave together, standing as near to one another as they dare. Arthur has a sense of deja vu. It’s as embarrassing as it is disconcerting: he has imagined this moment so often, jerked off to the thought so often, that it feels more familiar than it should.

Curt wasn’t kidding when he said his place was nearby. They’re out of the rain, away from the wet-garbage stink of New York, and stepping into Curt’s second-floor walkup within minutes. Arthur’s skin and groin are on fire with anticipation. He hovers by the door, watching every move and every cue of Curt’s.

Curt swoops into the cluttered living room.

“Music?” he asks, stepping over records and CD’s that litter the carpet. “What are you into now?”

Arthur covers his face.

“Whatever you want, I don’t mind.”

Curt pulls an album from a pile and puts it on the record player. The Talking Heads begin to play.

“Another drink?” Curt returns to Arthur’s side. “Or should I not ask?”

“Another beer is fine,” Arthur says. But he reaches for Curt’s hand first and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

They don’t bother with the beer, in the end. Instead they stumble into the bedroom and fuck until Arthur sees stars behind his eyes when he comes, deep inside Curt.

*

June. It’s less than a week since that last encounter with Curt. He hasn’t called, but Arthur has cherished the fresh memories, more blatantly erotic than a few cryptic words after a show. It’s a bright spot in the sterile flat and the dusty silence.

Arthur leans back in his desk chair after work. There’s only the hum of his computer and muffled traffic sounds from outside to keep him company. Perhaps he should get a cat, or a plant, if he wants to start small. The spring sun has emerged at last; it streams in through the window, illuminating the room’s loneliness. Light gleams on the green pin Arthur has taken out of its drawer. That pin has become his most prized possession, or next-most. Curt _also_ gave Arthur his number last week. Arthur found the scrap of paper tucked into his jacket pocket as he left Curt’s apartment. It’s in a folder by the phone now, carefully smoothed out and preserved. But he hasn’t called. Not yet. He could. Curt must be all right with the idea. That’s usually why you give someone your phone number, isn’t it? But they might be profoundly incompatible, a loser and fantasist like Arthur with a wreck like Curt. (He said he was clean and doing all right, though…) Curt could have changed his mind in a week, too. Not everyone’s as stubborn or as pitiful as Arthur.

He sets down the pin, reverently, and puts a hand on the phone, still wondering.


End file.
